Page 26 of Smith

When Smith didn’t go on I raised a brow to prompt an explanation. He read my expression and elaborated.

“He makes six figures, has no wife, no kids, but he does have a sport bike, a Jag, a cabin cruiser that’s not top of the line but still set him back a whack. He also goes out to eat a lot and according to his credit card statement, he doesn’t do that alone unless he’s eating three-hundred dollar meals on the regular.”

Three hundred dollar meals? Holy hell. I made good money and had a lot of it in the bank and I would never regularly spend three hundred dollars on a meal.

“That’s insanity.”

It must be noted, Smith did not comment on George’s wasteful spending habits.

“Kira’s working on digging deeper.”

“Okay, so what plans have changed?”

“After we hit the store we’re going to your house so you can pack a bag, then we’re going to my house.”

Not that I minded the change in plans. I didn’t even mind he didn’t give me the option of spending the night at his, I just didn’t understand.

“Why?”

Smith stared at me for a few beats, then he slowly said, “Someone’s following you.”

That I minded—the way he slowly spoke and enunciated his words like I was dim.

“We already knew that,” I said, returning his tone.

“You left to go to Philly from your house, Aria.”

It took a moment for what he said to register.

“I watched your videos and checked your social media. You didn’t say you were going to Philly. You didn’t post any pictures while you were there. You didn’t check in and post your location.”

Of course I didn’t. I wasn’t stupid. My social media was only used to promote my YouTube channel. I never shared anything personal. And all of my friends knew never to tag me in photos.

“That means whoever followed you home, followed you there, and they did that by knowing where you live.”

Well fuck.

“Did you check Lisa’s?—”

“Kira ran you and she came up with nothing from the wedding or the night before. Not a single picture of you being there exists on the internet.”

That was bad news. I kind of wished one of my friends screwed up and tagged or mentioned me in a celebration post.

“So now I’m staying with you?”

Smith stiffened and suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“That or a safehouse.”

I didn’t want to stay in a safehouse but Smith’s impression of a statue gave me pause.

“Which do you prefer?”

“My house.”

I let go of the breath I was holding but was more confused.

“You sure? You look…” I didn’t know what he looked like. Constipated maybe. Not that I’d tell him that.

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